


Take 5 (interlude)

by 51stCenturyFox



Series: Jukebox Heroes [5]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Backstory, Developing Relationship, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:19:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/51stCenturyFox/pseuds/51stCenturyFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jazz mix, from the 1960s, I think. JARVIS thought I'd like it. I really do, actually," Steve says.</p><p>"Cool. You need a beret, though. Maybe Gauloises. And a girlfriend with bangs, a black turtleneck and no sense of rhythm."</p><p>(This is part of a series, but really -- it's a series of one-shots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take 5 (interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to betas neifile7 and copperbadge

"You know, I do realize that SSR stands for Strategic Scientific Reserve, but I just see 'Sexy Steve Rogers' whenever you wear that shirt," Tony says, walking into Steve's apartment with a brown cardboard box. Steve just shakes his head at him, but there's amusement in the set of his mouth.

"I have four of these," Steve says with a shrug, pulling at the snug white cotton. "I guess they're issue items."

"Do you need more clothes?" Tony's already bought him more things to wear than Steve has owned in his life, he's claimed. "Not that I don't love the look."

"Tony, you know I have money." Steve has a retainer salary from SHIELD. He also has MIA pay that was subject to compound interest, because there was nobody for Uncle Sam to pay it to. He's not rich, but he has a debit card and a silvery charge card with a centurion on it. He can afford anything he wants, within reason. Even so, Tony insists on picking up the tab ninety percent of the time if they go out (he lets Steve cover tips once in a while.) 

Tony tips his head to one side. "What are you listening to, Mellow Renditions from Car Commercials? Do not join the Columbia Music Club. Ten CDs for a penny is a lie. I found this out the hard way." 

"Jazz mix, from the 1960s, I think. JARVIS thought I'd like it. I really do, actually," Steve says.

"Cool. You need a beret, though. Maybe Gauloises. And a girlfriend with bangs, a black turtleneck and no sense of rhythm."

Steve smiles for real. "I don't think I need any of those things," he says, and Tony wants to grab him by the back of the neck and press his lips into that grin, but his arms are full. 

"I brought you something," he says, He places the box on a console table and pats the flaps on top, then pulls off his sunglasses and hooks them into a buttonhole at the top of his black shirt.

Steve glances at the box. "What's this?"

"Open it."

And inside, there are Steve's things; the stuff he left behind when he left Brooklyn to make the reels and tour with the USO and fight in the war he helped win. Steve looks a little dazed as he spies what's under the flaps. "I remember this sketchpad," he says, pulling it out and leafing through the pages, trapping a few that threaten to flutter away against his chest. "It's in pretty good shape for being around so long,"

Tony clears his throat. "Nah, too easy," he mutters, and Steve offers up that newly-patented but long-suffering expression that Tony _delights_ in producing as often as possible. "There's more."

And there is; between layers of crisp archival paper, Steve lifts out a framed picture of his mother, a wallet he'd forgotten about and thought he'd lost somewhere, a blue wool sweater with gray cuffs that definitely won't fit him anymore, and his high school yearbook. He looks at Tony after every discovery, surprised.

"They were being stored in a vault." Okay, the items had been stored in a few different places, so it had taken a little string-pulling, a little grease, but they're Steve's things. His history. 

Steve carefully places his mother's portrait on top of the sketchbook and wipes his palms on his pants before cracking the yearbook. "Wow. This is great...thank you for finding these."

"It's too bad you can't go to a high school reunion," Tony says. "Because you could say, 'Yo, check Captain America!' and rip off the mask. You're livin' the dream now." And then he wants to suck the words back because he's a fucking idiot; obviously Steve's lost everyone he knew from Brooklyn, whether or not he'd have bothered to show up and spend an awkward evening drinking with them in a hotel banquet hall every ten years. And nobody takes off their masks at high school reunions, anyway.

He realizes he should probably just leave and let Steve reminisce privately. "Sorry," he says, edging towards the door. Tony finds himself apologizing to Steve a lot. It's novel.

"C'mon," Steve picks up the yearbook and angles his head towards the sofa. "Sit with me," he says, because Steve can be astoundingly patient about things that aren't, well, mission-related insubordination.

With the slim volume bridging their laps, Steve leafs through the pages of photos, pointing out classmates and friends who would be nearly 90 now, if they're still kicking. Stanley G. Klein, Lucille Elkins, Teddy Fletcher, Doris Jeanne Desalvo -- there's a full-page photo of her, dark-haired and lipsticked, smiling demurely on the steps of the school with a breeze ruffling her skirt and books on her lap. "We had biology together; I had the biggest thing for her. There - she signed it."

 

_To Steven,_

_You're a swell kid and loads of fun! Best of luck in the future and in all that you do!_

_XO_

_\- Doris_

 

"You read that like, 100 times, didn't you? Especially the X and O part," Tony said.

"Maybe 200 times. Hugs and kisses." Steve nods.

" _Were_ you loads of fun?"

"Well, Doris never got to find out."

"Her loss."

Tony grasps the yearbook and turns it, flipping to the senior class, and finds Steven Rogers. NHS, Key Club, Rifle Club, Red Cross Council. Yearbook Committee. That explains the big-ass photo of Doris at the front of the book, Tony thinks.

Steve doesn't look much different than in the pictures Tony's seen, taken right before the serum and the Vita rays did their duty -- a young man in a too-wide tie with soft eyes and an sweetly earnest smile.

"This is Bucky," Steve says, in a tone that sounds neutral unless you know Steve the way Tony is starting to. Steve traces a finger over one of the tallest players in a shot of the basketball team, and Tony's arm steals around his shoulder as he leans in, scratches at the back of Steve's neck. "I think... I think I'll tell you about him some other time."

"Okay," Tony says softly, turning a page. "Hey, Archery Club, and it's all-female. Let's show Clint and tell him it's a girl sport."

"Huh. Better wear the suit when you do, because Natasha'll line up behind him and kick you into tomorrow after she yanks the arrows out." Steve closes the yearbook. "You would love that, wouldn't you? Waking up one day in the future -- seeing all that new technology that hasn't even been thought of yet?"

"Twenty years younger and in peak physical condition?"

"Yeah. Or not."

Tony smooths his goatee thoughtfully. "You coming with me?"

"I don't know if I could handle doing that again."

"Okay then, no. I wouldn't."

Steve laughs. "Liar."

Tony fishes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and taps and swipes to pull up an image. It's a photo that was featured in a magazine article.

  


"I did this to get a girl's attention," Tony says. "Michelle. I was so deeply infatuated with her that the oxygen left a room whenever she walked through it. Because she was beautiful and her hair smelled like fudge. And also, obviously, because robots are awesome."

Steve grips the other edge of the phone, because Tony's hand is trembling a little, and squints at the image. "Hey, is that Dummy?"

"Yep. He was even dumber then, and so was I."

"So, you were in high school?"

"College junior. I graduated from MIT when I was seventeen." Tony shakes his head.

"Wow." Steve pulls back a little and looks at him. "You couldn't have been that dumb."

"The girls there loved me, let me tell you. They were on the Starkmeister like wet on water. I barely had any spare time to build robots in the lab."

"You were a good-looking kid," Steve says, giving Tony's nearest knee a squeeze.

"Thanks. But that's exactly what I was, a kid. A nerdy kid who liked robotics. Surrounded by mature, adult college women who would ruffle my hair and buy me Cokes. You know, until they realized I was Anthony Stark of the filthy-rich Starks."

"Ah, that must have helped."

"After that, I had to buy my own Cokes. And being one of the filthy-rich-from-being-merchants-of-death Starks totally worked magic on the girls building anti-apartheid displays," Tony smirked. "'Hey, my family makes weapons! Cool, huh? Hey, come back!'"

"Well," Steve examines the picture again before handing Tony his phone. "I knew your dad. You know I wouldn't have judged you for that."

"No, you would have judged me for not volunteering to go punch out General Noriega or something."

Steve shrugs. "World war. It was a different time."

A saxophone wails, and Steve taps a foot to the syncopation of a brush drum as Tony tucks the phone away and raises both arms in a stretch.

"Are you just here because it's easy being with me?" Tony blurts out, and Steve purses his lips to reply. "Are you?"

Steve's head rolls back, his eyes tracking a beam crossing the ceiling. He starts to laugh, and he can't stop for anything."You think you're _easy_?" Steve asks.

"I am really easy, but that's not what I mean," Tony mock-scowls.

"I know what you mean. Or...no. No I don't."

"Come on, I basically shanghaied you into...this. There was no actual dating period. Or you might want to date other people; somebody like Doris, maybe, who definitely would be interested in you now." Tony pauses. "You come out of the deep freeze, battle a whacked-out deity from another realm and weeks later you suddenly have a boyfriend. A really great boyfriend, but..."

Steve squints at him.

"--you seem to be rolling with this but I have a notion that you're going to wake up one morning and come to your senses, or something..." Tony lets the words tail off.

"For somebody who's got an awful lot going for him, you don't value yourself very much," Steve says, and Tony brushes that off with a wave, because he probably has a too-high opinion of himself, doesn't he? He's Mr Ego, Mr _really-great-boyfriend_ , after all. "I'm not kidding." 

"So I've been told," Tony says. "Believe it or don't."

"Who told you that?"

"Therapists."

Steve carefully sets the yearbook down on the coffee table. "Did you listen to them?"

"Not really. But I didn't give them much to work with, either. I have trust issues."

"Do you trust me?" Steve asks gently, turning his head to read Tony's expression.

Tony's mouth quirks and he looks away."...yeah. I told you about Michelle, didn't I? I've never told a soul about that."

"Her loss," Steve whispers, his breath hot against Tony's ear, and Tony shifts on the sofa, curls his fingers around the nape of Steve's neck, because he wants to kiss him then, has to.

"XO," he whispers back, before he does.


End file.
